


Not Your Typical Disaster Scenario

by Veleste



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veleste/pseuds/Veleste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening at the Ankh-Morpork museum turns disastrous when a building collapse traps The Patrician in the sewers with a badly wounded and half delirious Vimes. (Written as a response to the art piece by Disasterscenario which shows Vetinari cradling a badly wounded Vimes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Your Typical Disaster Scenario

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DisasterScenario](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterScenario/gifts).



> I wrote this last year and then completely forgot about it. I found it while I was cleaning out my drive so I thought it was time to rectify the oversight and put it online. The artwork that inspired it can be found here: http://disasterscenario.tumblr.com/post/91275410524/the-partner-of-this-drawing-i-guess-idk-this.

Every kid in Ankh-Morpork had been to the museum at one point or another. Maybe it started raining while they were walking down Broadway. Maybe some parent or teacher brought them there in the hopes they’d contract culture. Maybe someone stole a giant painting commemorating a battle between Dwarfs and Trolls on the eve of a violent murder and you were the poor bastard investigating it. There were all sorts of good reasons to be there.

An exhibition, Vimes thought, wasn’t one of them.

Oh it was fine for the nobs he could see swanning about; staring at the paintwork through spectacles and making appreciative noises in the back of their throat. They were designed to like this kind of thing. Him? He’d sooner be looking at graffiti down the docks. At least that meant something, even if it was just ‘Wozzer woz ‘ere’. 

What was worse was that Sybil had made him dress up so he ‘blended in’. Well, so much as anyone with a permanent 5 O’Clock shadow and a scar running down one length of his face could. Sybil said it made him look roguish. Dangerous. He really hoped it did. Maybe then he’d get some peace.

"Enjoying the Quirmian exhibition, your Grace?"

Where Vetinari had loomed from, Vimes didn’t know. Tall, thin and silent, the Patrician had an uncanny ability to just ‘appear’, but normally Vimes had a sense for when he was around. Kind of like the cold clammy feeling you got a few hours after you ate cheap clams.

"Thrilled, your lordship," Vimes said, staring fixedly ahead at the painting in front of him. Three scantily clad water nymphs danced around a hapless looking painter in what could only be titled ‘wish fulfillment 101’. Not that Vimes begrudged a man his dreams.

"I see you like the ‘Meeting of the Nymphs in the Forest’ by Frederick Gwilliam Barton. Many would say you have a good eye.”

A smart remark about a direction containing scantily clad women always being the right place to look died on his lips as he remembered his wife was probably in ear shot, and if she wasn’t, one of her infinite network of acquaintances was. Plus, he didn’t think the Patrician would appreciate the humour.

"Got any of his work up at the palace?" Vimes asked.

"No," the Patrician drawled. "Do you think it’s suitable for a political building?"

"Hard to say, me not being of the artistic persuasion, but it’s a damn sight less morbid than the wax faces of dead men."

"Ah but that adds a certain gravitas, wouldn’t you say?"

"It certainly adds something," Vimes said. 

“My Lord Patrician,” a broad, red faced man pushed his way between the two men. “How wonderful to see you out and about, rubbing shoulders with the common folk - eh?” The way the man spoke - a sort of controlled yawn - marked him as anything but ‘the common folk’ and Vimes turned to see Sir Binghap of Wuffington standing so close to Vetinari that the taller man had to bow his head to look him in the eye.

Vetinari opened his mouth, but only got as far as an ‘ah’ before Binghap seized one of the Patrician’s fine-boned hands, pumping it like he was trying to draw water. “Binghap, your Lordship. I don’t expect you remember me. We met at the Lady Sybil’s fundraiser for the Sunshine Sanctuary a few months ago.”

“Yes, of course. How lovely to see you again,” Vetinari executed a smooth movement, disentangling his hand from the meaty paw that grasped it and using it to gesture to Vimes. “May I present his Grace, the Duke of Ankh.”

Binghap’s smile went sour. The fancy blue shirt and silk lined waistcoat Sybil had strong armed him into did nothing to hide Vimes broad shoulders, thick arms and the scarred face that were the inheritance of a man who worked the streets. Binghap had likely dismissed him as a dapper bodyguard, which had suited Vimes well enough.

“Pleased to meet you, Sir Binghap. I remember you from the fundraiser. You sponsored that Nothingfjord Blue.”

Binghap’s face brightened, but only from the face of a man transitioning between ‘oh gods no, I’ve made a huge mistake’ to ‘I’m still hip deep in it, but now I have a raft’. 

“Ah yes, quite right. Aha. Good memory your grace! Remarkable. Must be that keen coppers mind, eh?”

“Must be,” Vimes agreed, stifling a smirk. Little beads of sweat were gathering at the man’s temples. “Are you quite alright?” He asked, taking pity.

“Oh, me? Yes. Aha. Little warm in here though.”

“Yes, perhaps you should enjoy the view from one of the balconies. Get a breath of fresh air,” Vetinari said smoothly.

“Quite right, your Lordship. I think that’s just what I’ll do. Enjoy the gala.” Binghap, still staring at Vimes, retreated. Narrowly avoided a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. Clipped one of Effie King’s entourage and backed straight into William De Worde, nearly knocking the two of them over.

Vimes turned smartly to face the painting again, closing his eyes and counting backwards from ten. It didn’t help. Not when he could hear the breaking glass, the indignant squawks and the sound of fizzy liquid spreading along teak floors.

“Interesting,” he heard Vetinari say. “It seems you scared him off merely by looking at him.”

“Shame I don’t have the effect on more people.” Opening his eyes, Vimes reached into his jacket and pulled out the silver cigar case Sybil had given him so many years ago. He knew better than to spark up in the gallery, so he merely spun it through his fingers. Already he could see people glancing up, eyeing the Patrician, just waiting for their chance to pounce.

Events like this must be hell for him, Vimes thought. All the multitudes brown-nosing and grasping for whatever inch of power they think they can wrest from him. Why even bother to come? He had no wife who obliged him to attend. Then again, Sybil came to these events so full of purpose that a raging horde of barbarians would merely slow her down. There were always specific people she was on the look out for, or specific bits of information she wanted to uncover or disseminate. Sybil was a one woman embassy. Would the Patrician’s motivations be any different? 

Which made Vimes what? A welcome break from the masses or another box to be checked off? It wasn’t like he didn’t see the man every weekday, discussing expense reports, crime levels, complaints - usually complaints - or upcoming events in the city. Hell, he was probably the closest thing the man had to a friend and it would be impolite to ask if the only reason he was talking to him was to scare away the sycophants.

“Come on, before we gather flies,” Vimes said, moving to walk the length of the gallery. He’d find Sybil, offload him onto her, then go find somewhere to smoke. “I didn’t think you were big into all this art stuff.” 

Most of the hopeful faces turned back to their conversations but one woman at the back of the hall caught Vimes’ eye and held it. 

“The Vetinari family has been a patron of the arts for centuries.”

“Maybe so, but I didn’t think _you_ were big into all this art stuff.” The woman had started to walk towards them. Vimes felt a prickle of recognition but she was too far away for him to be sure.

“I appreciate a good Antonius Canolli as much as the next man.” 

“Canolli? Isn’t he the one who does all the sculptures of big, ripped men with tiny --”

Vetinari waved a hand at him. “Yes, yes. In his early days he had certain fixations, but towards the end of his life he produced some of the most exquisite sculptures that the disc has ever seen. His Astoria Divinia is considered one of his finest pieces. The way her wings are so translucent as to allow light to pass through, but still detailed enough to show each bristle of feather, is a feat which has never been replicated.”

“Astoria Divinia. That’s in the museum down in Quirm, I’ve seen it.” _Yes_ , Vimes thought, _and when it came to the back of the statue I doubt anyone was looking at the wings._ “He also did that one of the lady dancing with those swirling robes on. Even I can admit it was impressive how he got the marble to look so...” 

“I believe ‘diaphanous’ is the word you’re looking for.”

The woman was still gunning for them. She was walking quickly now, trying to get to them before they turned off the main gallery. Recognition hit Vimes like a sledgehammer to the gut.

“Err, just out of curiosity, is Lady Rust still baying for my blood?”

Vetinari turned suddenly, disappearing into a smaller gallery hung with a handful of tapestries. An elderly couple dressed in traditional Sto-Latian robes were talking in front of a relief painting of a cabbage field, but when they spotted the pair they made a hasty exit. Alone, Vetinari guided him over to a tapestry depicting a cloudy sky, stormy sea, a few vague buildings and the outline of what might be a ship. The Patrician whipped back the tapestry and opened a door, slipping inside with barely a rustle of his robes.

“Do hurry up, Vimes, there’s a good fellow.”

The hallway was narrow, but without his armour on Vimes was able to squeeze in. Vimes always thought of his dimensions in terms of him wearing armour. 

“Secret passage?” Vimes asked.

“Utility stairway. It leads up to the roof and down to one of the old, flooded cellars.”

“And you know this… how?”

“I’m the Patrician,” Vetinari said. That wasn’t much of an answer, but Vimes could almost hear the self satisfied lift of eyebrows that the gloom hid.

Vetinari led the way up the spiral staircase. Neither of them were young men, and it was an arduous climb, but when they reached the top Vimes couldn’t help but notice that he was gasping for breath while the other man merely had splotches of colour on his cheeks.

The roof was nothing special. Covered in gravel and spotted with domes that left light into the galleries, there were signs of periodical use in the form of a moss covered bench and table which had an old, glass vase in the centre holding dried flowers. 

“Did we really just run away from Lady Rust?” Vimes asked between breaths. Vetinari ignored him, moving to the small wall that ran the circumference of the roof and perching on a moss and dirt free patch that indicated a Gargoyle had spent some time roosting there. From up here you could see most of the city. To the right it was a sea of roofs cut off only by the city walls, to the left the spires and towers were more irregular and broken up by the impressive edifice of the Patrician’s palace and the distant curve of the Royal Opera House.

“If Sybil catches me up here there’ll be murder,” Vimes said, popping open his cigar case and removing one with his teeth. Even though Vetinari didn’t smoke - at least not that Vimes had ever seen - he proffered the silver case. Vetinari waved it away.

“If it comes to that, which I doubt it will, I will explain that I pulled you aside on official city business.”

“Have you?”

“Hmm?” Vetinari looked up, saying nothing as he watched Vimes light the cigar and puff it to life in a plume of grey-blue smoke. There was a light mist in the air, and the heavy, dark sky promised rain later, but for now it was pleasantly cool. Vimes let the sounds of the city wash over him. It was almost peaceful.

“She’s tried to contract the assassins guild against you four times, you know,” Vetinari said. “And twice against me.”

It took Vimes a second to catch up. Ah yes, Lady Rust. 

“How’s that working out for her?” Vimes asked, shifting the cigar around in his mouth.

“Lord Downey continues to refuse to accept contracts against you, and he has been unable to find any assassins in the guild willing to take one against me.”

“I always wondered why I got taken off the register. Downey’s explanation that I was integral to the running of the city sounded more like something you’d say than he’d believe.”

Vetinari smiled. “I didn’t discuss the subject with him. However, if I had to guess, I would say it was due to the fact that every time there was an attempt on your life, Lady Sybil upped the rent. As I understand it, it reached quite an extortionate amount before Lord Downey noticed.”

Vimes’ cigar stilled. 

“You didn’t know?” Vetinari asked, innocent and serene.

“Sybil…” Vimes said slowly. His eyes slid shut, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“He petitioned on the grounds of rent racking, of course, but it was written into the contract that any attempt against a member of the Ramkin family would make the Guild subject to an ‘inhumation tax’. She and Mister Morecombe successfully argued that, by virtue of marriage, you were a member of the Ramkin family. There were of course many precedents read out. At incredible length.”

“Rent racking,” Vimes breathed, feeling that rare tightness in his throat that preceded a really long, hard laugh. His efforts to hold it in only made his cigar and shoulders shake. “How much did she get him for?” 

“The exact amount escapes my recollection but as I understand it they worked out a payment scheme to the satisfaction of both parties.”

Vimes wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, straightening up. “Any other secrets I should know about?”

“Several dozen at least,” Vetinari said without a trace of humour, or any obvious inclination to continue. Vimes chuckled, and returned to watching the city. When he was down to half the cigar, he turned to watch Vetinari. The man was gazing out towards The Trump, his posture relaxed and face blank.

Vimes had just opened his mouth to suggest they head back downstairs when the boom reached him. His head snapped around the same moment Vetinari rose. For a moment it was impossible to tell where the sound had come from, then Vimes saw the plume of smoke billowing up towards the sky.

“Alchemists guild?” He asked, but the Alchemists Guild was past the Patrician’s palace and the plume was only coming from the end of the street. There was an ominous rumble.

“It came from Cunning Artificers,” Vetinari said.

“Probably a dwarf bakery. Had flour explosions before,” Vimes said, but the dust was still curling upwards. No flames or smoke. Just… dust. There was another low rumble.

“It occurs to me, that doesn’t look like an explosion or fire so much as a collapse,” Vetinari said very slowly. “And also that the river relief works were diverted under broadway after the dragon caved in the old tunnels.”

“Meaning?” Vimes asked and he heard another soft boom and watched a second plume rush upwards.

“Meaning, if there was a collapse then it could trigger a chain reaction as far as the nearest reinforced intersection.”

“Which is…”

“Under us.”

Vimes let that sink in as he realised the plume was making its way towards them. A slated roof further along the terrace toppled out of sight. The building beneath them shuddered. It was rare to see the Patrician in any state of agitation, but what little colour he had drained from his cheeks. 

“Should we --” Vimes began.

“Yes!” Vetinari grabbed Vimes’ arm and dragged him towards the door at the far side of the roof. No sooner had they reached it than a deafening crash rolled over them and they were enveloped in a thick, cloying, cloud of masonry dust. The sound of bricks and cobbles raining down somewhere to their left spurred both men into the stairwell. Vetinari’s longer legs took the steps two at a time but even so cracks raced down the walls past him. When they reached the doorway, Vetinari grabbed it with both hands but the door was stuck fast.

“It won’t open,” he panted.

“The frame’s warped!” Vimes pointed to where the wood bulged under a mess of fractures.

“Up! We need to go up! We can jump to the next building!”

“Jump? Are you mad?”

But Vetinari was already running past him, grabbing a handful of his shirt as he went and hauling Vimes behind him. When the building started to collapse they both felt it. The cracks widened, and the stairwell seemed to shift around them. Vimes stumbled, nearly taking them both down. Vetinari hauled him back to his feet. The door to the roof was in sight. Vetinari’s pale hand reached out, almost glowing in the dark, at the exact moment the stairwell began to fall away beneath them.

Vimes tumbled back but Vetinari kept his hold. He hauled him up, grunting with the effort. They both tumbled backwards through the door which even now was warping and twisting. 

“Right side!” Vetinari was shouting, scrambling back to his feet. Vimes struggled up but the whole building was vibrating under him. Frantic screams and crashing rock filled the air.

Sybil, he thought desperately, but the thought was driven from him as he was thrown to his knees again. The ceiling beneath him began to fold down into the gallery like softening butter. Vetinari turned back as Vimes cried out. He was sliding along the gravel on his back, even as he thrashed for a handhold. The Patrician looked between the nearby building and Vimes for only a second before he threw himself after the Commander. His fingers encircled Vimes wrist like a vice, slowing the frantic slide. It wasn’t enough. Vimes felt his lower body slide over the lip. The abyss yawned up to greet him.

Vetinari cried out in pain somewhere behind him but the iron like grip never faltered and Vimes felt him grab hold of the material at his shoulder. Slowly, more of his body inched back up onto the roof. The void receded.

“Bloody hell!” Vimes gasped. “I thought I was a goner.” 

Then the rest of the roof folded in.

Time seemed to skip. 

One minute he was falling, the next minute he was on his back staring at splintered teak flooring and upset masonry. Cold was seeping up through him, but at the same time his stomach felt strangely warm. He raised a hand and felt wetness.

“Sir Samuel?”

The voice sounded far away. He knew he should recognise it but the ringing in his ears was so loud. What was this strange, soggy thing on top of him? Vimes pulled uncomprehendingly at the waistcoat, snapping one of the buttons off as he stripped it away. Why was it so wet? Was he in water? He couldn’t tell.

“Commander! Can you hear me?”

That voice again. So far away. Was that the Patrician? What was the Patrician doing in a gutter...

“Mmmph!” 

“Sam!” 

Strong hands slipped under his arms and pulled him into an upright position. Feeling surged back into Sam Vimes with a vengeance. Sharp, hot pain lanced through him and looking down Vimes saw the shard of glass as long as his hand sticking out from the soft of his stomach.

It took a moment for his brain to catch up to what he was seeing, and the fact his blue shirt now looked black.

“Sam, are you with me? Sir Samuel!”

“Pat...Patrician?” Vimes said. His thoughts felt like treacle oozing through a sieve. He heard a grunt behind him and felt Vetinari shifting.

“We can’t stay here. Half the building is on top of us.”

“Where are we?” It’s shock, Vimes thought. I’ve gone into shock. Can’t think straight. Need to get warm. Need to get dry. “Need to… need blankets.”

“There’s water seeping in from the pipes. If you get sewage in your wounds you’ll die. Do you understand? You’ll die and there will be nothing I can do to stop it.”

“Need to get… warm…” Sam mumbled. It could have been the delirium, but he could have sworn he heard a whispered curse from behind him. He could definitely feel the water lapping at his shins though.

“I’m going to try to lift you out of the water. Do you think you can stand?”

“Of course.”

“We’re near the Broadway river relief pipes. It hasn’t rained in a few days so we should be able to walk all the way to the palace. It’s not far. Once there I can send for Doctor Lawn and Ridcully if needed.”

“Don’t… want… wizards…”

“But you have to stand up, Sir Samuel. It’s not far. You’ve walked the Broadway beat a thousand times. From Day Watch, up Widdershins, up Broadway. Short little trot.”

A large grey rat poked its nose out from the rubble, regarding the two men with glinting, dark eyes.

“One of yours?” Vimes asked.

“Commander, focus! On the count of three, we stand together. Understood?” He was using his no-nonsense tyrant voice, and it cut through the fog in Vimes head. 

“Yes, Sir,” Vimes mumbled. 

“One. Two… and up!” 

Vimes felt something tear inside him. His screams bounced back off the walls. The only reason he didn’t sink straight back into the water were the arms around his chest supporting him. 

“I can’t hold you. My leg,” Vetinari panted. “Please, Sam.” 

Slowly his senses trickled back into him. The pain lancing through the fuzziness. Strength returned to his legs and slipping one arm around Vetinari’s shoulders to steady himself, he was able to stand.

“Short walk. Very easy. Once we get you patched up you’ll be home with your wife fretting over you and young Sam jumping on the bed, your grace.” Vetinari spoke in a steady, soothing voice but it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than Vimes.

“For once… can we please… dispense… with the graces and sirs… Go back to Sam.” Not that it sounded any less strange to have Havelock Vetinari call him by his first name. It was always, Commander Vimes, Sir Samuel, your grace or - if he had done something to really annoy him - a condescending ‘there’s a good fellow’.

“Yes, of course, Sam.” 

Vetinari led him over uneven ground, through a passageway barely wide enough to accommodate both of them. Every step sent fresh shocks of agony through his body, but Vimes clamped his jaw tight and pushed through the pain. He recognised they were in a cellar of some sort, but one wall had collapsed revealing a wide, well maintained sewer. The river relief system. One of the only good things Snapcase had done for the city, and then only because he was paranoid the city would flood and be over run with disease again like it had been in his youth.

“Does that mean I get to call you Havelock?”

“Do you want to call me Havelock?” Vetinari asked.

“Not particularly, your lordship, no.”

Vetinari barked a laugh. “Well, choose whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

“Gods, now I know it’s bad.”

“You’ll be fine,” Vetinari said through gritted teeth.

“Don’t molly coddle me.”

“Kindly credit me with the fact if I thought you were a lost cause, I wouldn’t be hauling you through the sewers,” Vetinari snapped and Vimes took the time to look at him. His face, which being the face of a man who worked indoors was always pale, was now bone white. Mud and blood streaked one side, and his hair was plastered across his forehead and cheeks. Even when he had been bleeding out in the carriage or gasping for air on his death bed, he had retained a certain amount of decorum. It had fled from him now. There were real lines of pain in the set of his eyes and Vimes noticed his game leg was dragging slightly as they walked. 

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Your leg...”

“I landed poorly on it. Nothing is broken.”

From somewhere deep in the tunnels came another rumble. Panic clawed its way back into Vimes’ brain. The floor beneath him felt slick with grime and he could hear the steady drip, drip, drip of water from nearby. No sound of falling masonry though. No more dust nor cracks. Safe for now.

“Dwarves,” Vetinari was saying when Vimes brain re-attuned itself to reality once more.

“Sorry?”

“They’ve been illegally digging down into old layers of the city. Expanding cellars. Opening up old roadways. I mostly turned a blind eye, sending only the odd inspector, because I believed they were intelligent enough to reinforce correctly and the city has an overcrowding problem as it is.”

“Nnrgh -- I did the same. You can’t blame yourself.”

The Patrician said nothing to that, but he was unguarded enough that Vimes saw the flicker of seething rage across his eyes. The effort of supporting of Vimes was taking its toll, and he could feel tremors running through the man’s body. Their progress was slow, and Vimes felt a cold, numbness seeping into his legs. He knew they’d buckle any second. 

“No one knows where we are…” Vimes said. “If we die --”

“Shut up.”

“If _I_ die.”

“I said shut up, Commander.”

“No.” Vimes caught him by the front of his shirt, hauling his face inches from his own. “You have to tell Sybil I’m sorry. I’m sorry I skived off. It’s not her fault I was being an uncultured little shit. I love that woman. You have to make sure she’s okay. Her and Sam.” He didn’t let the thought that they may not have made it out themselves even enter his mind.

“I’d think that goes without saying --”

“Good.” Vimes sagged against him, nearly taking them both to the floor.

“Sam. Sam you have to get up. We’re barely a hundred meters from the palace sewer grate.”

“How do you know these things? The hidden stairwells? The roofs? The sewers.”

“A misspent childhood. Get up. I’ll tell you all about it later.” Vetinari did his best to haul Sam back onto his feet but the floor beneath them was slick with the remains of the river Ankh, and even out of armour the Commander was a heavy man. “Come on, Commander. It isn’t like you to give up. You’re always itching to learn my secrets. Get up, Sam!”

“I’ve seen gut wounds like this before...”

“It’s not that deep. I don’t see any seepage to indicate a gut has been nicked. You’ll have another scar for the collection but you’ll be fine.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Vimes groaned. “Just remember… your promise.”

Panic danced across the Patrician’s face. It was almost reassuring to know that deep down he actually cared.

“You give me no choice --” Vetinari stood, one hand gripping his injured leg as he hobbled around him. Vimes expected to hear retreating footsteps but instead he heard the clink of metal against metal. Vetinari’s face appeared over his briefly and Vimes could feel him tying something under his arms.

“What are you --” Vetinari’s face swam in and out of focus. Vimes could feel the darkness calling him. The great yawning void of unconsciousness slowly pulling him down. A slap caught him on the cheek, jolting him back.

“You’ll stay awake or so help me I’ll have Doctor Hix summon your ghost back and tether it to my coffee cup so I can lecture you daily on the virtue of following orders. Do you understand?”

Vetinari disappeared and Vimes felt himself being dragged across the ground. He tilted his head back, trying to figure out what was happening, but all he could see was blurred colours and floating dots. He stayed awake for as long as he could, watching the Patrician’s laborious progress towards their destination. But not for the first time in his life, Vimes found himself disobeying orders.

Darkness claimed him.

But not _the_ darkness.

*

When he and Sybil had still been courting she had dragged him to the opera. The Ramkins had their own box between the Selachii and Venturii box - as much a peacekeeping measure as anything to do with status - and he had spent almost his entire dragon slaying bonus on a new suit. They had ended up sitting through the whole thing in the dark anyway, but Sybil had told him he looked nice and she hadn’t even sounded surprised. That paid for every cent.

And anyway, he had sold the suit on the next evening for only a two dollar loss.

During the opera, a large lady had walked out into the centre of the stage and taken a deep breath. Sam had sorta known what to expect, but illuminated by an inferno of candles, she opened her mouth and produced a series of the most high pitched noises Vimes had ever heard. Afterwards they echoed in his ears, drowning out most of the polite conversation he had been forced to make as they left, and everything anyone was saying to him for the next 24 hours. It had been one of the most unique and prolonged headaches he’d ever experienced. 

It was a walk in the park compared to how he was feeling now. He had woken up in gutters covered in his own vomit feeling fresher than this. He opened his mouth to protest and found his throat tight as a beggar's purse strings and doubly full of lint.

“Grah,” he managed. “Ahack.”

“Oh good, thur. You’re awake. How are you feeling?” A familiar Uberwaldian accent spoke in quiet, gentle tones next to his ear. Vimes coughed in response and felt something cold pressed against his chest.

“Deeeep breath. In and out. Ah, yeth, very good thur. You’re coming along nicely. Would you like thumthing to drink?”

Vimes nodded as best he could, but every slight movement sent bright rays of agony through his head. Interestingly, the rest of his body felt cool and painless. Panic followed close on the tail of that discovery and he tried to sit up but strong hands eased him back down onto the bed.

“I’m afraid I must inthisth that you remain lying down, Commander. You might burst your thitches. Thomach wounds like yours are very tricky. Considering where we found you, it’th amazing you’re alive.” He had known it was an Igor, but a lack of a commitment to the lisp confirmed the voice as belonging to The Watch Igor. Vimes relaxed a frisson and tried to open his eyes but the lights were overwhelming. He groaned again.

“Then again, it would take more than a museum to kill Commander Vimes, isn’t that right, thur?” His Igor said with a dry, rasping chuckle. “Thirsty, Commander? Open wide, here cometh the birdy.”

It was galling, but Vimes was too desperate for the liquid to do anything other than open his mouth. Something cool touched his tongue. An ice stick, he discovered, and he sucked on it greedily.

“You were given a local anesthetic during the thurgery, if you’re wondering why you can’t feel anything below your neck. Nothing to worry about, Commander. You’re in remarkably good thape for a man who had a building fall on him.”

“Pat --” Vimes managed once he had gotten enough moisture in his mouth to form words.

“The Patrician? He woke up a few hours ago. We found him deeper in the sewers but by comparison he was relatively unharmed. A little blood loth never hurt anyone.”

Vimes tried to put that picture together in his head and failed.

“How… Did I…if Patrish...”

‘Try not to strain yourself Commander. Honestly, I was going to ask you that question. It was Constable Haddock who found you, thur, and he said you were surrounded by rats - excuse me - raths, and you were hooked up to some kind of harness.”

“Nnrgh?”

“That’s what I said, more or less. He thwore blind, thur. Even presented some sort of convoluted contraption made out of two belts and a black, silk lined waistcoat. I mean, the device certainly looked like thum kind of harness but how would you train the rats to pull it? They’re hardly sledding animals. I mean, given a few years and many generations of raths I suppose anything is possible but really I find the whole idea quite abthurd… Commander?”

Vimes was making a half cough, half hacking noise which Igor eventually identified as laughter.

“Commander, I’d advise against laughing if I were you. You might tear your thitches.”

“Syb…” he coughed and he heard Igor smile. There was always a strange, fluidic stretching noise when he did.

“Your wife and son are fine. Both made it clear of the building before the collapth.”

“Dwarves --” Vimes groaned.

“We know, thur. Captain Carrot is leading up the investigation. Apparently there was a build up of biogas in a lower, unused tunnel which caused an explosion. Many of the upper tunnels, though reinforced, were compromised in the older areas due to subsidence. The whole tunnel system came down like a pack of cards.”

“Vetinari…will… bloody…murder…”

“Oh believe me, thur. I don’t envy the dwarves in the city right now. Civic leaders are, of course, appealing for calm, but we have doubled patrols in the major dwarf areas just in case. Angua is co-ordinating the rescue efforts, and we have the Golems and Trolls clearing rubble and shoring things up.”

“How many…”

“You need to focus on getting better, thur. Don’t worry about --”

“How. Many.” Vimes gritted through his teeth. His head swam and pounded and paddled towards coherent thought.

“It’s not as bad as it could have been,” Igor said gently, placing a large hand on his shoulder and giving it a careful squeeze. “But there is a lot of rubble yet to be cleared, and we’ll have to go down several layers to start getting to the dwarves. Constable Hammerjaw hasn’t reported in… but Cheery thinks he has a sweetbeard in Sunink who he might have gone to visit. We’ve sent a clacks, thur. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Sybil,” he breathed again, but his thoughts were beginning to thicken in a too familiar fashion. He wasn’t long for the conscious world.

“She’s fine, Commander. We sent her home during the surgery for thum rest. She was running herself ragged helping out at the hothpital. I’m sure she’ll be back at your bedside as soon as she knows you’re awake.”

Darkness started creeping in at the edges of his vision and he let his head fall back into the soft pillow.

“There’s a good Commander. Sleepy night night. Oh, and if you feel an itch above your waist, please refrain from scratching it. Wouldn’t want you to accidentally rupture a thpleen now, would we?”

*

Vimes thought it was the rain that woke him. It drove against the window pane as if trying to break it, and he could hear the steady hiss of cobbles, slates and puddles being similarly hammered in the courtyard below. He tried not to think about the tunnels he had so recently gotten acquainted with, slowly filling with water. Nor about being dead and buried in a tidal wave of run-off water and sewage.

A soft clink drew his attention to the corner of the room and for the first time he noticed a man was standing there. He was just a ripple in the shadows. A curve of a shoulder highlighted against the deeper darkness, but even that was enough for Sam to identify him. 

“My Lord Patrician.” Ever since he had woken up his voice had sounded like gravel shifting on the ocean floor. Not a nice ocean either. A dirty one, full of droopy faced fish that swam straight out of your nightmares. He tried to sit up but a lance of pain sent him back into the stack of lavender scented pillows with a grunt.

“Ah, Commander.” Vetinari sounded exactly as he always did. A little bored, with smooth, even tones. “I wouldn’t try to get up if I were you. Stomach wounds can be nasty business.”

Sam caught his breath and tried again. Sweat rolled down his forehead and back just at that small exertion, and it was only through sheer force of will he didn’t yelp when a warm hand appeared at the small of his back to help guide him into place.

“You need to take it easy, your grace. It wouldn’t do to tear your stitches. Your lady wife is already very worried about you.” Vetinari had learned some time ago that mentioning Sybil was the best way to get Vimes to do anything.

“If you don’t want me busting my stitches, then help me stand.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Oh bugger you and help me stand or I’ll do it myself.”

Sam ignored the slight tremble he felt in Vetinari’s arms as the man helped him move. The day had taken its toll on both of them, but neither one was the sort to admit it. When Vimes bare feet hit the floor, he swore at the cold tiles and the shock of it nearly buckled his legs. Once more, the Patrician helped steady him but Vimes caught the gritting of his teeth and knew that Vetinari was in no more shape to be a nursemaid than he was. 

He almost felt guilty.

Vetinari guided him to a couch facing the window and Vimes let himself sink onto one end gratefully. A silver tea set steamed gently on the table in front of him and Vimes found his sluggish brain focusing on it.

“Why were you taking tea in my hospital room?”

“It’s chamomile tea. It’s meant to soothe the nerves and induce rest. My new house keeper is a great believer in herbs and hydration. She has tea sent up so often I fear I could drown myself drinking it all. Please.” He pushed a cup in front of Vimes who regarded it with suspicion. Sybil had cups like these. Had, being the operative word. They hadn’t lasted long in contact with his rough hands. 

Still, he wasn’t really in a position to refuse as the Patrician poured him a cup full of what looked like olive oil.

“Thank you,” he said, giving it an experimental sniff and graciously ignoring the fact his question had gone unanswered.

“It tastes better than it smells,” Vetinari offered, but Vimes had the feeling he was lying for politeness sake. 

He sipped to stave off conversation. It wasn’t… awful… but then again you could call a lot of things ‘not awful’ you still wouldn’t readily put in your mouth.

The two men lapsed into silence, sitting as far apart from each other as humanly possible while remaining on the one couch and cradling dainty little cups. 

“Carrot’s been keeping you up to date?” Vimes asked when the silence became too much to bear. “It was Octeday so most of the shops were closed, and a faire in The Plaza of Broken Moons had most of the foot traffic over that side of Broadway. Hopefully the body count will be low.”

Vetinari said nothing, taking a sip of his tea.

“Golems should be a big help. Both to clear the wreckage and to act as supports. Did much of the museum stay intact?”

“Only the foyer and some of the West Wing collapsed, to the best of my knowledge. The West Wing was used to house a collection of Dwarvish confectionary and weaponry, so I can’t imagine something like a building putting too much of a dint in the collection.”

“Patrician wing is on the other side, right? So I guess your portrait ‘Man with Dog’ is fine.”

“Thank fate for small mercies,” Vetinari said with a perfectly blank expression.

“It’s only an okay rendering of you, but I think it portrays Wuffles in a fantastic light.”

“I’m sure he’d be thrilled were he here to hear you say so.”

Vimes chuckled, which sent a fresh spasm of pain through him. Vetinari caught the wince and half turned towards him. 

“Comman--”

“Don’t you start fussing as well! I’ll have Carrot playing the role of the worlds tallest mother hen back at the Watch House and Sybil, who can fret enough for an entire barrack of soldiers, back at home. I’ll be amazed if I make it to the bathroom without someone offering me a pillow or a restorative.”

“I’ll try to contain myself, Commander,” Vetinari said cooly and Vimes felt the creep of a blush up his neck at the outburst.

“Sorry, I --”

Vetinari held up a hand. “Please, I understand. I may not have the full force of Sybil Vimes or Captain Carrot coming to bear on my well being, but Drumknott has an army of clerks at his disposal and the drive to use them.”

Vimes blinked.

“Oh yes,” the Patrician continued. “The moment I approach anything even resembling an exit without a doctors note, a clerk will materialise out of the ether with something requiring my urgent attention. I briefly considered scaling the garden wall or lowering myself down from a bedroom window with knotted sheets, but I’m not entirely convinced I wouldn’t reach the bottom to find either my house keeper or my secretary waiting with some documents for me to sign in a nice, comfy library somewhere.”

Vimes covered his mouth with the tea cup to hide the smile.

“Well, I guess it’s nice to be loved,” he said at last. Vetinari said nothing. The two men finished their tea in silence.

“I’m sorry, I have to ask,” Vimes broke the silence first. “How did you get me out of the sewer?”

“Hmm?” Vetinari turned to face him, quirking an eyebrow.

“Only, Igor said something about… rats… and finding you further back, passed out in the tunnel.”

“As you say, I lost consciousness in the tunnels. I have no idea how you got out. I can only express my gladness that you did so safely and in one piece.”

Vimes tried to stare him down, but it was like trying to stare down a statue.

“So. Nothing to say about… harnesses…”

“If you’re looking to buy one, I hear Mister Scrope makes some of the most reliable in the city.”

“…What? Firstly, why would you hear that? Secondly, you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Isn’t it?” Vetinari feigned innocence. It was about as convincing as a seamstress in a habit and wimple. “Please do enlighten me.”

“I’m about as in the mood now for one of your games as I am for a swift kick in the arse. Are you telling me you didn’t hook up a bunch of rats to drag me out of the sewer?”

Vetinari blinked slowly at him. “Rats?” He asked.

“Don’t play silly beggars. I know all about your Ankh-Morsqueak under the palace.”

Vetinari had gone preternaturally still which Vimes recognised as the sign of the man trying not to laugh.

“Ankh-Morsqueak,” he repeated slowly. “Tell me, do they have you on any opiates?”

“Ha, ha,” Vimes said, trying for a stern tone of voice but failing to quite find the patented Vimes steel. “I’m just trying to reconcile the image that was painted for me of a team of rats pulling my unconscious body out of a sewer.”

“Well… I’m not sure how much you weigh but a rat is hardly the most adept sledding animal. It takes two of them to move a bottle of beer. To drag you… it would take two hundred, at least. And that’s a conservative estimate.”

“Two hundred rats…” Vimes marvelled. “That must have been a sight.”

“I don’t think the tunnel would have fit a swarm of two hundred rats. Not unless they all lined up neatly in file, and really, I feel you’re crediting them with far too much organizational skill. Though, I suppose it would be possible to train them given enough time and determination.”

“How do you explain the harness then? I felt you tie something around my chest.”

Vetinari looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, I tied my belt around your chest. It’s not really viable to tourniquet a whole torso but it also helped me keep a grip on you while I dragged you. Your shirt was starting to tear where I was grabbing it.”

“So you’re telling me that you didn’t make some kind of harness out of both our belts and your waistcoat. I know it was your waistcoat because there was only two of us down there and only one of us was wearing a black, silk lined waistcoat.”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re referring to. I didn’t take off my waistcoat, though, now you mention it I don’t remember wearing it when I woke up.”

Vimes stared at him.

“So, what you’re telling me, is that two hundred rats, give or take, found us, decided of their own accord to help out, then stripped you of your waistcoat, created some kind of makeshift harness using our belts, and dragged me into the palace.”

“I haven’t said anything like that,” Vetinari said. “I dragged you as far as the palace grate which I found had been welded shut since the last time I passed that way. Exhausted and dizzy, I collapsed and crawled several feet towards one of the gratings further down, which I hoped would be rusty enough to break. It wasn’t, and I passed out from the exertions of my attempts. I didn’t expect to ever wake up again, and if I did, I certainly didn’t expect to wake up in the Lady Sybil Free Hospital with a cold compress on my head and a hot water bottle at my feet.”

“You got a hot water bottle? My, my, don’t they give you the fancy treatment,” Vimes said. “Are you really telling me you had nothing to do with the rats?”

Vetinari answered with a sweep of his eyebrows.

“Maybe Haddock imagined it. Cheery once told me if you inhale the wrong kind of gas then it can cause you to see things that aren’t there. It’s why so many people went loopy down in the paint factory.”

“Perhaps.” Vetinari relaxed back against the couch and stretched out his leg in front of him. He rubbed absently at the thigh as he stared off at nothing. “Four hundred and twenty two,” he said at last.

“What?”

“I estimate you weigh roughly 100 kilos. Assuming the average bottle of beer weighs 473 grams, which is equivalent to a pint, and it takes two rats to move a bottle of beer, then it would take a minimum of four hundred and twenty two rats.”

“Even if they’re magical UU rats?” Vimes asked.

“I can’t see an affiliation with Unseen University leading to an increase in physical prowess.”

“Good point.”

The two men fell back into silence. Vimes cradled the empty little tea cup in his large hands. He expected the Patrician to dismiss him with a stern warning not to return to work - not that he could have gotten past Carrot in any case - or to make some pithy observations he could chuckle to himself about, but the silence stretched.

Vimes stared straight ahead and continued to do so as he started to talk.

“Look, I know Sybil has probably already sent you the customary ‘thanks for helping my husband not get himself killed’ bouquet of flowers that she has on special order, but even so… thanks. I may not know how you did it, but I know I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

“I genuinely do not know how you got out of the sewer,” Vetinari said softly.

“No, but you never left me behind either. Even though it put your own life at risk. Which, may I point out, was stupid and you’re never to do that again.”

Vimes continued to stare straight ahead, so he didn’t see the Patrician’s smile.

There was a polite knock at the door. 

“Come in Drumknott,” Vetinari sighed, wiping his face of all emotion and tucking his leg back under him. The small secretary shuffled in, a leather binder under one arm.

“Apologies, Lord Patrician, but I got the figures from Mister Fiskall and the Librarian sent over the maps you requested. Mister Tordekson and the Under-Council have sent word they’re on their way.”

“Ah, Dwarven punctuality. You could set your watch by it.”

The Patrician didn’t flinch when he stood, but the colour drained from his face. Drumknott gave a half step forward and stopped. Vimes had to rock to his feet, one arm wrapped around his midriff and he wasn’t quite able to stop the grunt of pain.

“I think it goes without saying that if you come within ten yards of a Watch House before Igor clears you for duty then I’ll have you shot. Spend some time with your family, Vimes. Take up a hobby. I hear painting is good for the soul. Paint your very own Man with Dragon, or Meeting of the Nymphs in the Forest. As I understand it, we’ll need to replace the old one.”

“And you?” Vimes asked. “When does Lord Vetinari get his time to paint?”

The Patrician smiled, stopping at the door to the room and turning to face Vimes.

“I’m more of a crossword man.”

Vimes stared at him for a moment, then stuck out his hand. Vetinari glanced at it in confusion before his expression relaxed. He had a firm, cool handshake with a palm that felt smooth against Vimes’ own.

“I’ll see you soon, your grace,” he said.

“Not if I can help it, your lordship,” Vimes snorted.

Drumknott trailed him out the door, and Vimes watched him as far as the stairs. After he settled back into the couch, feeling what he less than affectionately knew as ‘the pain sweats’ setting in, he turned his head to look out the window.

Movement on the window sill drew his attention as a large, grey rat reared up on its hind legs and steady itself against the bleak brickwork with a paw. It appeared to be watching him. 

Vimes watched it back.

There were a lot of words Sybil used to describe rats, especially ones which came as a surprise, but the only one that came to Vimes head upon looking at this one was: tidy. It was the A.E Pessimal of rats. Well groomed, uniformly coloured, small and astute looking.

Could rats talk to other animals? A team of dogs could have pulled him out easily enough. But, rats don’t bark, they squeak. It’d be the difference between Morporkian and Quirmian, or Uberwaldian and Klatchian. Then again, could they learn to speak it? Who would teach them? The Patrician was a master of languages, it was known, but he couldn’t imagine him in front of a black board going ‘ruff ruff awoof!’ to an assembly of rats. 

Actually, he could, and it wasn’t funny so much as it was vaguely terrifying.

And where did it stop? Could they talk to horses? To swamp-dragons? The next time the palace cat prowled up would the rat throw up his paws and say ‘Meow meow, we are all furry brethren under the yoke of the black robed oppressor. Let us join together, brother, and rise up against the two-legs! We shall install you as Catrician of the new Ankh-Meowpork and serve as your dutiful clerks.’

Ye gods. Maybe Igor had slipped him something.

As if sensing his train of thought, the rat winked. One of its eyes certainly seemed to close while the other stayed open anyway. At least, that’s what it looked like from this distance. 

There was a moment of indecision, then Vimes did the sensible thing. He ignored the rat and went back to bed.

Ankh-Morpork was a hell of a city.


End file.
